Prisoner's Piano
by aflaskj
Summary: It wasn't easy being chained to a piano. And life after that wasn't as easy either. Wammy's wanted him to be a detective. Society wanted him to be normal. And L wanted to be L. But some people just wanted him to disappear. Discontinued.
1. Piano

ruined my line transitions... so now this is all very messy. Just pretend they are still there. I'm sorry I am too lazy to go through this fic and fix things. I forgot where they should go too. I have no intentions for truly finishing this fic to what I was going to write it up too... but it has a sense of completion where I left it anyways.

I hope that works.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.**

It was hard being chained to a piano. It made his days the hardest days in his life.

He remembered the piano since the day he was born. His mother sang to him while balancing him on her lap, stroking his wild unruly hair and moving his hands up and down on the piano keys. She pressed them gently to make these sounds emit from the white keys every once in a while, never touching the black ones.

The piano was beastly thing with a certain beauty, especially whenever the light from the stained-glass window hit it in just the right places. The colors were brilliant that affected the original deep mahogany—that seemed to affect the sounds coming from it.

Mother called it a marvel.

She loved that piano.

He remembered her voice as she hummed and told him, _"When you get older, I'll let you play this piano by yourself. You will have access to all of the keys. Even the black ones."_

He would bat his wide gray eyes and nod as if he understood her.

But he never did.

The day Aunt Josephine went into labor was one of the hardest days of his life.

Mother wasn't there to hold him and he never knew about fathers. He just sat there on the piano seat, nibbling on a cookie and jogging his feet up and down to the melody of his mother's voice echoing in his ears.

The sounds all around him were quiet. Most would say not a creature was stirring but he heard them. He heard their sounds, the playful tapping of their feet and the soft squeaks of their squabbles.

They inhabited the walls and gave his mother grief. He knew one of the creatures had been found outside of the walls whenever he heard his mother cry. She never screamed, she just cried while she shuffled around the kitchen in her ratty old slippers.

He took this time to just stare at her from atop his piano seat—keep everything about her in his mind. The way her forehead creased when she couldn't find her broom, the way her hair stuck everywhere when she was frazzled because she couldn't find the broom, the way the corners of her mouth etched downwards because she couldn't find that _bloody broom_.

The way the music of her cries rung in through the air and hung onto the ceiling because when she finally found that broom another creature lay beside the first.

The day after Aunt Josephine gave birth was one of the hardest days of his life.

He barricaded himself under the piano with the piano seat.

He heard the bell ring and shouts from the front door that turned into bangs that turned into screeches that turned into thuds. The door flopped onto the ground and whoever was making those ungodly sounds entered.

"_His name, what is his name?"_

"_It just says L."_

"_It can't just say "L", my sister wouldn't name her child that even if she was mentally unstable."_

"_It just says…L."_

He quickly learned that whenever Aunt Josephine was in the house it would be the hardest day of his life.

She'd get this crazed look in her eye whenever she remembered that he was under the piano. She'd tell her husband, _"He's a bit abnormal for a child isn't he?"_

"_He _is_ named L for a reason."_

_L for what?_

The child wondered this for the rest of his life.

She wouldn't let him forget it; she hung it over his head like she did the cookies and the cake, the strawberries and the cupcakes, and the scones Mother used to make. She even left a piece of dried bread on the black piano key once.

He knew better not to even attempt to grab it.

It was decided when he turned four that he was old enough to move to the chained stage.

Aunt Josephine would handcuff him to the piano seat and wouldn't let him off it for a while. She told him he'd thank her for it later.

He nodded like he was already thanking her.

But he never did.

It was when he reached the climax of two weeks later after being chained that Aunt Josephine decided he would play the piano for her.

She propped him onto the piano seat and placed music sheets in front of him, carefully teaching him how to translate each musical note from the sheet onto the piano.

She did in such a way that he almost thought she was his mother.

It was a week later that Aunt Josephine started treating him with respect and fed him like normal kids were fed. He decided that these days wouldn't be the hardest in his life.

The first day Aunt Josephine gave him a plate of strawberry shortcake that L uttered a word he thought he would never tell her, _"Thank you."_

And she uttered the words he expected from her, _"Just eat it." _She gave him a few colorful words that he thought didn't need repeating.

But he _did_ think they sounded _awful_.

Some days Aunt Josephine would sit directly across from him. Those days they would have staring contests. L would always win.

His reward was a slap and piece of cake.

He only remembered the slap. To have that much dominance over someone…to show them they could hold some sort of power…that was something else for L.

It was a month later after Aunt Josephine treated him like a respectable human being in regards to earlier treatment that L decided this day was going to be a breakthrough.

He wanted to know something.

So he spoke to her for the second time he had resided with her, _"Do you know where my mother is?"_

She responded with cold silence and ended their staring contest.

That was the day L's grace period ended.

"_I'm your mother."_

"_No." But there's a ninety-five percent chance that I think you are._

He began playing the same song over and over again because to Aunt Josephine he could never get it right.

He doesn't remember what his mother's voice sounds like anymore because his stomach's voice is louder.

It was when he turned five that Aunt Josephine forgot to let him off the chain.

She hadn't gotten home and L was beginning to wonder if she forgot about him. After all, she began to just leave a bucket to his own devices instead of leading him to the bathroom.

He couldn't blame her though, because along the course of time he forgot what his mother looked like.

He was so afraid that he would forget forever that he started losing countless hours of sleep.

He spent nights just staring at the darkness trying to piece together fragments of his mother's likeness.

The way her forehead wrinkled in anger—_no, that was Aunt Josephine._

The way that her eyebrows lifted in surprise—_no, that was when Aunt Josephine was surprised when he lived without food for a week._

The way that her voice clogged his throat—_no, that was when Aunt Josephine would get angry whenever he won staring contests and tried to throttle him until her husband stepped into the room._

What _were_ her ways?

And had she forgotten him too?

It was two months after that heavy dark blue bags developed beneath his eyes. It was those days when he read many musical sheets that he found inside the piano seat.

He always hid them before Aunt Josephine would come in the room and he would always ask for more when her husband came in.

Aunt Josephine's husband was like a ghost of a man. He came and went though the front door, only talking to L whenever he deemed it necessary. He sometimes let L have more music sheets and even gave him an occasional scrap of food.

Other times he just stared at him.

And L stared back.

It was three weeks after when Aunt Josephine's husband gave him a book.

He read the whole thing within an hour and craved more.

But he never begged for such items; he never showed any more weakness than Aunt Josephine knew already.

The only thing he held dear: easing his hunger. But wait! There was another!

Did he forget what it was called?

Or did he just never have the opportunity to find out what it was?

On the days right before his birthday, it either rained hard, fast with whipping winds and scorching drops or had a light drizzle that washed away the prints on the grass.

Those were the days he heard his mother again.

Her voice enchanted him, like the tingling of bells. He always wanted to go out and feel those curious diamonds that fell from the sky but he was always chained to the piano.

Sometimes he couldn't hear anyone else.

It was like his mother was calling for him—calling _down_ to him.

Calling to take him away.

But the harsh, wringing hands of Aunt Josephine, the empty stares of her husband, and the cold reality of the chain always brought him back.

Always.

It was on his birthday that he figured out what to call his forgotten language.

Aunt Josephine had put a sign on the door and left him at his usual spot. She and her husband went somewhere. Somewhere without him as usual.

"_Just keep playing," _she told him before she patted his head. It was his gift to be patted instead of being hit. _Just keep playing…just keep playing the game._

So he did.

It was already nearing ten o' clock when he got to the ending of the same song the fortieth time when the bell rang.

Odd. The sign probably said something in Aunt Josephine's colorful words to _back off_.

He stopped playing and ducked underneath the piano.

"_Hey! I saw you!"_

_Hmm…_

L got up and looked out the window.

A little girl was standing there, holding a bag of goodies and dressed in just a white dress with crude wings tied around her.

He stared at her, trying to figure out what she was.

She stared back.

He was about to narrow her eyes when the girl blinked.

_I won,_ he thought. He slightly smiled to himself. The girl interpreted this the wrong way and smiled at him, revealing brilliant white teeth.

"_Why are you in there all alone? And in the _dark_!" _she said. Her voice sounded like those bells he heard a long time ago.

...It was when Mother had this strange urge to decorate the house with tinsel and these little red berries connected to green leaves. She began weaving these in the railings of the stairs and hung them on the windows.

L watched her from his piano seat; he was in fetal position with his arms wrapped around his knees hugging tightly. She was almost finished decorating when she gasped and looked at him.

"_I can't believe I almost forgot!"_ she had said to him. She flew down the stairs and appeared next to him again with a box in her arms a wry smile on her lips. She set it down and opened it, exposing its contents to L. _Bells. Tiny, silver bells._

Magical _bells._

But that was a long time ago.

L frowned. What do you say to someone who can't hear you? _"Can you hear me?"_ He hadn't spoken in so long, and for a long period of time he almost forgot he had his own voice.

"_Yes." _Not bothering to listen to what else he might say, she called to him, _"Why aren't you outside trick or treating? It's fun!" _She popped a piece of candy in her mouth and smiled at him again.

Trick…or treating?

Ah, now he remembered what that was associated with. Aunt Josephine always told him he had the devil's birthday. Halloween. The day when little kids dressed in costume and went around houses begging for candy.

Begging was not his style.

However, there was no harm in asking.

_"What are you?"_

She looked taken aback a little bit and pressed her small rounded nose against the window and replied, _"An angel."_


	2. Angel

_An angel?_

An angel. She was dressed as an angel.

While L was contemplating this sliver of information, the angel outdoors was pouting. _"Well? Are you coming out or what?"_

L shook his head miserably.

"_Why not?"_ she gaped at him.

"_I cannot."_ He was about to lift his arm to reveal his chain but remembered the last time he had done that—and he was determined to _not_ do it again.

No matter what, no one must know what was wrong with him.

And there was definitely something wrong with him.

The little girl could see it in his eyes and didn't press anymore.

Instead, she gave him a slight smile and said, _"Can you at least open the window?"_

Could he?

L stood up, stretching his limbs from being in the same constant motion the whole night—the same rhythmic motion of his fingers bobbing up and down on the piano keys, playing even when his heart felt heavy.

He started walking towards the girl. One foot in front of the other. One arm swaying by his side and the other hidden behind his back. His movements made him resemble a zombie and the girl was reminded of her Halloween night again.

She couldn't spend all her time here. At least…not at the moment.

_Faster_, she motioned to him.

When he was just within the window's reach the chain jerked him back and landed his feet flat on the ground, his body stock still.

She started when he went still and quickly adjusted to his form in front of her. It was like looking in a mirror and not seeing yourself but some other strange reflection—the reflection of a neglected boy on Halloween night.

Little did she know he had been neglected every night…

She stared at his hair covering half his face and the one eye staring at her with blackness rimmed around it. The way his eye stood out unnerved her and he knew this.

"_Hello,"_ she timidly told him, one foot shifting side-to-side and tiny hands nervously grasping the bag of goodies.

He said nothing.

"_Open the window."_

He did nothing.

"_Come on, you know you want to. You aren't _that_ scary."_

He scoffed a bit. It wasn't that he didn't want to open it—she just didn't know he could not.

Maybe if he stared at it long enough it would open by itself.

After two minutes of just staring at each other—and the girl's palms becoming sweaty that the bag might have almost slid from her hands—L finally decided something.

He _would_ open that window.

She challenged him to do it. And if she hadn't with her words she definitely did with her staring.

Diverting his gaze fro her, L glanced around the room—front door to the left of him, check. Piano behind him moved to the corner, check. Window in front of him, check.

Chain wrapped around piano seat, che-

Piano seat.

He mentally slapped himself.

_Of course_. L shuffled down to the piano seat—that old, worn piano seat that held him captive for such a long time. He glanced back behind him to see I the girl was still there.

She hadn't moved her feet but her eyes were watching him carefully.

Brining his hands around the middle of the seat, L tried lifting it up.

No, that wouldn't work. His skinny limbs were not strong enough.

But he managed to topple it over to its side—which gave him just the bit of chain length he needed to reach the window.

"_Good," _the tiny girl said to him when he finally pried open the window. _"Now we don't have to just stare at each other."_

_What else was there?_ L couldn't fathom anything more exciting than winning a staring contest.

"_Would you like some…"_

She wouldn't be getting his name.

"…_candy?"_

She sounded a bit disappointed at the boy's silence.

Candy?

A soft hand placed a small hard piece of candy in the middle of his. It was wrapped in red plastic, little crinkling noises he handled it. He gently stroked it with one finger with his other hand—just barely displaying the chain that kept him connected to the piano seat.

The girl wasn't searching enough to catch on to it.

"_You don't pet it like it's an animal! Eat it!"_ The girl almost giggled until she saw his expression.

His eyes had a slight mist engulfing them. The candy was so small in his hands…

"_Want me to?"_ She didn't wait for an answer—she snatched it from him and unwrapped it. That joyously loud noise was there again and stopped when she dropped the red wrapper into her bag.

"_Here. Have it."_

But before she could give it to him, her palms were already slippery from her earlier tension, and the candy slipped onto the ground.

"_Oh no!" _The little girl pouted again, and bent down to grab it. _"I'm sorry. It's ruined."_ Specks of dirt clung to the red piece of candy.

"_That is quite alright," _L said in a whisper. He took it from her and didn't stop even when she protested—he held with just two fingers to keep from touching the dirt. He began licking the side that wasn't infested with dirt and explosions erupted on his tongue as his taste buds rejoiced.

"_I'll see you later. I got to go, my parents, you know…"_

No. He really didn't.

It was decided from that day on the little girl would come see him again. He never knew when to expect her so he kept his distance from the window and was careful enough to wipe away any traces on the carpet of his piano pushing.

He became accustomed to dragging the piano seat to move anywhere in the room.

His eyes widened with excitement when he went somewhere new in the house, as his arms grew stronger—and his stomach became fuller.

The little girl would wake him up in the mornings by tapping on the window, nose pressed up against the glass and her hair in a different style each day.

One time her hair was tied in a bun on the back of her hair. She told him about how her mother did it for her and she couldn't do it herself since she could never hold things right or with a steady grip. She didn't know what to call it and her mother would never tell her.

These days would go by with silence on one side of the conversation—the little girl could have been talking to a wall but it was a window, a mirror of a black haired boy who was content enough to just stare at her and tilt his head to the side like a bird every once in a while—to let her know he was listening and that he was there.

He wanted to know her name but could never ask her—if he would not tell her his name he knew it was not fair to ask for hers.

It was those days that the little girl came to visit that he worried the most but had the most joy.

Every time he would want her to stay longer but also wanted her to leave—Aunt Josephine could come any second and the consequences would be _brutal_.

He knew what she would do to him but not so much what she _could_ do to _her._

He could not let anything happen to her.

He wouldn't.

It would not be right if anything did.

It was on rainy days L couldn't listen to her.

She would be coming to him—in her little black rain boots and white umbrella. Her clothes never seemed to match—one time he pointed out to her that one of her socks was blue and the other was purple.

The girl was so surprised that he spoke back to her that she offered him her socks.

He tried them on for her with great difficulty and when she left he stripped them off as quickly as possible.

He didn't need another chain on his body. His wrist was enough; he didn't want one on his _feet_.

His toes were _suffocating_ in those things.

So he gave them back to her the next day and then the next she politely gave them _back_—she claimed they already had his cooties and boy smell and were not fit for her dainty toes any longer.

It was decided that since socks would not appease him she would give him candy.

"_One a day!"_ she'd say then _"Two a day!"_ then _"Three!"_ until she finally said, _"Oh, just take the whole bag you are _way_ too skinny!"_

It was these days that L thought wouldn't be the hardest days of his life.

Not when he had a little girl by his side, giving him candy no less and—the word he recently looked up in the dictionary Aunt Josephine's husband left lying around in the kitchen—companionship.

So when the day came for her to leave he figured out the other thing he tried to run out of every day—loneliness.

It seemed as L began to look better and less paler than he already was Aunt Josephine struck with vengeance.

Bruises began to form on his face, around his eyes the most—Aunt Josephine claimed them as cheating and was determined to make him stop using them in staring contests.

Yes, she started those up again—but she started putting glasses on L to make it harder for him. He began to see odd shapes in the morning light and fuzzy circles on the little girl's head.

When this came about the little girl told him they had something in common—they both had problems with their eyesight.

Problems? No, he couldn't—his sight was one of the only things he had left!

Aunt Josephine could not have affected them too…

"_You see, I am colorblind." _The little girl would play with her thumbs by rubbing them against each other then pulling her lip with them. _"Have been since I was a baby my mother told me."_

"_That must be horrible."_

"_Why do you think that?"_

"_Because then you only see two sides of a problem—black and white. You cannot see the in between."_

"_How would you know? I can see pretty shades of gray all over the place! Your eyes are gray."_

"_That is the way they are naturally."_

"_Really? Well, your hair is also black."_

"_Naturally."_

"_Your shirt is white."_

"_Naturally."_

"_Your jeans are a faded shade of blue."_

"_How did you know that?"_

"_I can taste blue. I can also taste yellow, and pink. But I can't see them."_

"_That does not make much sense."_

"_It does to me. I lived that way my whole life—that's how my world has been and will be. And I've never seen a shade of gray as pretty as my taste of blue."_

L knew the way she was was because of a certain medical condition but couldn't for the life of him remember what it was.

He couldn't remember a lot of things.

Aunt Josephine once told him she beat the memory out of L to her husband.

They didn't know that the little girl was out the window talking to him. He was listening to her and discussing what color was L's strawberry—the one he _stole_ from the refrigerator after dragging the piano seat through the tiled floor of the kitchen when he was sure Aunt Josephine and her husband were out again—when he heard them return.

"_Hide," _he whispered as he got up from his crouch and pulled his piano seat back.

"_Wait! You forgot to close the window!"_

L quickly got back up to close the window when a hand slammed down on his shoulder.

"_What do you think you are doing?" _Aunt Josephine hissed at him, throwing him back into the piano seat—toppling them both over and sending herself into a fit of laughter.

She glanced at her husband who was staring out the window.

There was nothing there though.

"_I'm going to beat your mama out of you! You and she deserve to die!" _Aunt Josephine grabbed a lamp that had sat upon the aged piano and brought it down on L's small body.

And her husband left the room to go outside.

Aunt Josephine screamed after him, telling him she was going to beat it _all_ out of him—all of his memories.

He simply kept walking away.

L didn't remember seeing him ever again.

"_I see things in shapes."_

"_I do too."_

"_My eyesight can't be having problems then." I just see things in more shapes than you do._

After that, after L reached the ripe old age of seven, did the little girl bravely announce to L she would rescue him.

L had asked her how and she replied with all the courage she could muster, _"You'll see. And after that, you won't have to with all those crazy shapes from those silly old raccoon eyes of yours."_

So he did see.

And he wishes he didn't remember it.


	3. Visitor

It was decided that after Aunt Josephine's husband left there would be no mercy.

She chained him to the piano and took the seat away, then demanded for him to play standing up all night and if she found out he sat down once or fell asleep there _would_ be consequences.

Aunt Josephine was irate, impractical, and deceiving from that day on.

These days were definitely some of the hardest for L.

He knew not even his friend could help him.

She did not think that way though. She was too optimistic and this prospect frightened L.

It was a week after Aunt Josephine's husband left did she let L off the chain.

L was stunned—what other methods of abuse would she do with him?

But Aunt Josephine smiled—_what an awful smile_. There was something behind that smile that L knew was going to haunt him.

"_You be a good boy and I'll keep you off the chain." _She would be holding a spoon before L's mouth full of sweetened soup since he was too weak to hold one after playing for hours and hours at a time. _"This can last forever you know? Just forget the past."_

Somehow L knew he would not be able to forget the past with the _devil_.

Just with the things that mattered to him.

He began to forget the idea of ever having a mother besides Aunt Josephine and called her Aunt no more but _mama _and _mother_ and occasionally _friend_.

But he already _had _a friend. His _dear_ friend. The little girl.

And Aunt Josephine could _never _be his friend.

No matter all the times he dreamed about it.

The rest of his dreams were screams and _agony_.

He tried not to dream after those nights.

Dreams didn't matter because they never came true.

It was decided from that day on she would be nice to him as long as he followed her _rules_.

These were demanded of him—

_Speak when spoken to and _nicely.

Play the game.

_Call me mama or another endearing term because you love me right, honey?_

Play the game.

_Stop rubbing your eyes it isn't _that _painful is it? And if it is I'll give you something to make it painful if you _don't_ stop._

Play the game.

_Stop staring out the window like some diseased, unhappy child. You are _not_ one of them. You are mine and every child from me is special and wonderful and _sweet.

Win the game.

_Stop staring! What is so good out that window that you cannot find here? With _me?

Celia.

The days when Mama or _mother _buttered him up were some of the hardest—because they were so _painful_.

It hurt to know she was being deceitful but he didn't know when she'd strike or _how_.

So he waited.

Waited for the day to come, when he'd finally be taken away.

The girl never came on these days because L told her once. He told her that his _mama_ would be around more often—to make sure he did not run away when he was off the chain.

"_But why? Why would someone evil as her let you off the chain?"_

"_She is not evil." She is _pure_ evil._

"_You can say that but you can't betray your thoughts. You _know_ she is evil. She's the reason we can't be together and she's the reason why you can hardly walk normally!"_

"_She's the reason I met you."_

She looked away.

"_You're going to make me cry. And I don't even know your name."_

_There's a ninety-five percent chance I don't either._

"_No one does."_

_There it is._

"_How can you not know your own name?"_

The disbelief in her voice was almost covered by the aura of sadness emulating from it.

"_I go by L. That is not a true name."_

"_L. That _is _kind of weird. But it fits you."_

_What?_

"You _are weird. But in a good way. Because weird is just another way of saying 'unexpected' or 'unusual'—and how you cope with your life is always strange to me. You handle it well, it is almost unexpected what you will do next."_

"_But what does L stand for?"_

"_The letter of the alphabet? I don't know but it is a very vibrant shade of white."_

"_You can see that?"_

"_No, I just _know_ it is."_

"_White. That is good."_

"_And L is a true name because it is _your_ name. No one can take your identity away when they take your name."_

He looked away.

"_Names don't make you who you are."_

He heard footsteps.

"_It's what you do to earn a name that does."_

_She_ was coming.

"_But…don't you want to know my name?"_

_Yes._

"_Hello! Someone has come to see you, L!" _Aunt Josephine was coming through the backyard.

"_Uh oh, I guess I better go…"_

_Don't._

"_Come here, L!"_

_Don't want to._

"…_I'll see you later."_

_Don't think so._

"_Bye."_

_Don't think about it._

The girl quickly dropped something in his hand then ran off, her pigtail styled hair bouncing in the wind earning a brushing sound.

She disappeared into the morning light.

"_What is it you are staring at, dear?" I thought I told you _not_ to look out the window!_

L turned around, his face solemn as if he was assigned to his grave and crouched on the ground.

His "visitor" was sat down in front of him.

"_Hello, my name is Mrs. Coppernil. What is yours?" _She looked expectantly at him, like a child would at a forbidden toy.

L looked at _Mother_. Her expression twisted for a moment that said loud and clear _Answer or I'll—_then it turned back to normal, into the deceiving, _happiness all around_ face he came to know in the last few days.

"_Go on, tell her, _L." _That's not your name make up one or so help me I'll—_

"_It's L."_

_You are dead._

"_What kind of name is that for a child? Do you know how kids work Mrs. Juniper?"_

"_Oh, it is _Miss_ Juniper now. And I do not quite get what you are saying for kids are not _machines_. They are just little people who need love, affection, and someone to hold them." The innocence of her statement brightened Mrs. Coppernil's eyes._

"_I see, Miss Juniper. What has happened to your husband? Did he leave? Do you not know it is best for parents to try to stay together for the children?"_

"_You see, my husband was a brute. Horrible. He beat on L—which would explain his bruises—" A "hmm" from Mrs. Coppernil. "—and his… stoic expression. He was fond of him but my husband was only a hindrance so I made him leave. "_

The woman jotted something down on a notebook. _"I see." _She then turned away from _Mama_ and looked at L. _"Tell me child, why is your name L?"_

"_That is how it is."_

"_Hmm…"_

"_Oh, you rascal!" _Aunt Josephine came over and ruffled his hair. _"We call him that because it is his _nickname_! His _real_ name is…Shepherd. We named him that after his father—my ex-husband."_

That is when Mrs. Coppernil smiled. _"I'm sorry to inform you but if my records are right _L _is not your son. He is your sister's. Now why would you try to lie to me? I wonder why that is…"_

Aunt Josephine's face flushed in panic but quickly improvised. _"Oh, we called ourselves his parents to not upset him. His mother—my sister—was very _dear_ to him."_

"_Why would his nickname be L and not Shep? I believe you are _lying_ to me Mrs. Juniper…"_

"_L is his nick because he chose it himself! He doesn't _like_ to be named after my ex-husband you see? My ex-husband _abused _him. Surely you cannot see the integrity brought upon this child?"_

L was busy sucking his thumb.

He already decided this Mrs. Coppernil was a social worker—the girl told him someone was apt to do something about his current state. When asked if she would do something about it like she said she would, she just smiled at him with a mischievous glint in her eye and said, _"You never know until you try."_

"_So because of his integrity he wouldn't, let's say, _lie_ to me?"_

"_Correct," _Aunt Josephine's voice was unsteady.

"_I hope you don't mind but I will question _him_ since I am not sure he would say the same for _you_."_

The look _Mama_ gave to L could have frozen beer.

"_L."_

He tilted his head. _"Yes?"_

"_Are you happy here?"_

"…_No."_

_You are dead._

"_That's odd, your Aunt makes it sound like you _are_."_

"_She is lying."_

_You are dead._

"_Really?" _She cast a look at Aunt Josephine who was fuming and looked like she wanted to strangle both of them right there. _"I wonder why that is? Could it be that _she_ is the one who did this to you?" _She pointed at the bruises lining his face and arm and his legs oh they _bloody hurt._

"_Yes…"_

"_Don't listen to him! He is—"_

"_Lying? I'm afraid not, you just told me he wouldn't. His integrity, remember?"_

L took this moment to smirk.

"_I am going to ask you one more question before I decide whether your Aunt should be charged for child abuse and for being an unfit guardian. Did she _chain_ you?_

"_It depends on what you mean. She did chain me to the piano seat but she also beat me, starved me, and chained me to the piano once I figured I could push the seat to walk around. She never let me off to go to the bathroom, made me play all night for _her_, and scare away one of the people who could have served as the mediator between the two of us then _yes, _she _**chained** _me."_

_You are dead._

_I know._


	4. Promise

"_No matter what, don't make the same mistake I did."_

L knew that the day help arrived it would diminish just as quickly.

He stared at Aunt Josephine then back to Mrs. Coppernil. He kept at it as they kept talking.

He couldn't keep up anymore as the talking quickly turned to shouting then to hysterics and then threats.

"_You can't do this to me! You have no right!"_

"_Not me, but the court does! And so does _he_! Or have you forgotten he _isn't_ a machine?"_

"_Oh…"_ This was when L noticed a horrible glint in her eye. _"I do."_

The same glint she had when she first came…

He hid under the piano. He hoped they would just forget about him.

They didn't.

He felt Aunt Josephine's eyes bore a hole into his back.

"_I am sure you do too," _Aunt Josephine said, her voice icy-chilling the air and raising the hair on the back of L's neck.

He knew something horrible was going to happen.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Coppernil didn't get the hint. It would have been too late if she did, anyway.

Aunt Josephine was already beyond reasoning.

"_Miss Juniper—put that—NO!"_

"_I will once you promise me that you will _not_ give any of the information you have received—" _she sneered, not holding back her tongue as it went rapid fire—"_to _anyone._ If I find out there _will_ be consequences. And dear little L won't be so lucky next time."_

Aunt Josephine shifted her hold on L's neck as her other hand holding the gun pressed harder into the back of his skull. L gasped inwardly as the iciness of the metal seeped through his skin.

"_Understand me, Coppernil? Or do I have to fire once?"_

"_You—"_

The gun went off as L fell to the ground.

It was after those intense seconds that L found himself swimming.

His vision was swimming, dark colors and bright all held together with a single hairpin.

His whole body felt limp but light at the same time, like he could float.

Float away from all the evil he had witnessed.

"_For good luck."_

"_I don't believe in luck."_

"_Do you believe in anything?"_

"_I believe what I see. Facts, evidence…"_

"_That's funny. I can't see half of the things I believe."_

But he couldn't float away just yet.

He did not want to float away from all the good he had seen.

All the good he had enjoyed, with every sound that came from the droplets of rain, the music of Celia's giggling, and the bells of his mother's existence.

The music of the magic bells, the music of the simple crinkling of wrapping paper—the crinkling of candy wrappers as they piled up next to his prison and his guardian at the same time.

The music of his _own_ laughter.

But they were slowly covered by the sounds of the cackling of his aunt's dry laughter, the trembless of the archaic keys of the piano playing before his fingers pressed down from years of wearing down of his routine—and the sound, the explosion of noise from the cold, metal of the gory humor Aunt Josephine fired from the palm of her hand.

Then after the stream of fire blew away from his ears he couldn't hear anything.

"…_experience."_

All of a sudden, he couldn't see anything.

Anything but a faint silhouette.

His vision was fading. Just the shadow of his aunt looming over him as another fell down the stairs.

Hold on! The shadow was not falling down the stairs…

It was being carried away. _Mama? What are you doing?_

_Why did you do that?_

_Why did you shoot?_

_Why did you _hurt_ me?_

_Celia is next._

"_Do you believe in miracles?"_

"_Yes."_

"_But I thought…you can't _see_ miracles?"_

"_But they are happening all around me."_

It was the numbing day after that he specifically believed Aunt Josephine couldn't be his mother.

His mother was not a murderer.

"_That's what you want to believe."_

Another haunting smile.

L shivered.

He did not understand why he was still alive and Mrs. Coppernil was dead.

Was not Aunt Josephine angry at _him?_ Did she not threaten to kill _him?_

Then why did she have to pull the innocent social worker in?

Was it a different way to kill him?

Or was she so…different to think killing could be solved with a gun?

There is always the evidence.

The evidence that lead to the murder.

The evidence that was _him_.

It was the hours after he first awoke that the pain was blinding.

Blinding _madness_, so mad he could not work his anger and so angry he could not forget its tremors down his spine.

"_You'll forget about me."_

_I'll forget about you._

"_You'll forget about what happened."_

_I'll forget what happened._

"_You'll forget the murder."_

_I'll forget the murder._

"_You'll forget the gun."_

_I won't forget your smile._

The little girl came two days after.

She had a face of distress over the mask of happiness that had caricatured her features over the years.

"_Forget the pain. It won't last much longer, I'll get you out of here and into a hospital!"_

L had told in as much words as he could form what had taken place. He didn't need to go into details.

She knew Miss Juniper was a _very bad lady_.

She called in the police herself didn't she?

"_It's too late, I fear it is over for me."_

The little girl started rubbing her hands together and then wiped them off her dress.

"_No it isn't!"_

The determination in her voice was almost _amusing_ to L.

"_She is going to _kill_ me, Celia_._"_

The resignation in his voice tore the little girl apart.

"_No…"_

_Yes._

"_But…how did you know my name?"_

A rather peculiar smile from L, the lids of his lips skimming over his teeth just barely. _"It was on your hairpin."_

"_You noticed."_

"_I always notice."_

A tilt from his head and a sliver of a smile from Celia. The hair tied into two thick braids on both sides of her head bounced as she started giggling airily.

"_How long have you known?"_

"_Not long. I guessed for a few weeks but it was confirmed when you left it with me."_

"_For good luck."_

He didn't need to say anything to assure her he appreciated her presence and her sincerity. He just nodded and smiled again, but this time he did not let it stretch to show his teeth—which were in rough shape, not the pearls he admired about Celia. He just let it lay on his lips as it tingled upwards to form a curve that was enough for a childish perspective to take over his features.

It was enough for Celia to have relief, knowing he hadn't given up _all_ hope.

She smiled back at him and reached up through the bars of the chairs surrounding him to touch his hair—just barely, her fingers lightly dangled over the tips. She drew her hand back and let her smile drop with ease as she admired her handiwork.

"_You don't have to wear it. I just wanted to see how you would look like with it on."_

"_Isn't it…_weird_ for a boy to wear a female's hairpin."_

"_Yeah, but it's unexpected all the same."_

They stared at each other for a while before Celia broke it off to gaze at his confinement. Metal and wooden chairs were stacked around him to form a sort of cage—fit for an animal.

L was no animal.

The darkness of the room made her strain her eyes as she took it all in. She wanted to be able to document exactly where he was held for evidence against that _horrible lady_ in case the murder was not taken right.

She walked across the attic floor as she caught a glimpse of a car through the small window positioned just above her head. There were even more bars—all made of wood with tiny roses dotting across it. The bars were thin, very thin—like chopsticks that were memorable as a souvenir from a foreign restaurant. The hazy pink of the background of roses taunted her.

She couldn't see it but she could taste. Taste all the torment behind those roses, behind the essence of those bars.

Taste all the _horror_ that came from it.

She whirled around to face L just as she caught another glimpse of _another_ car—but a familiar one, with a devilish taste of red. It was the first time she was able to taste red but the sudden force of wind exhaling from that car got stuck in her throat that she _had_ to taste it.

Then she remembered she tasted it before—she had to run away before the husband came after her. The taste left her since she ran so fast and her pigtails were bobbing harder and harder as her neck jerked from being tossed everywhere—her legs skidding to take a turn and her head whipping back to look behind her so she would be able to tell if he was gone or not.

Gone or not.

Not gone, it was _that woman's_ car.

L gingerly picked the hairpin from his hair and held it between his thumb and finger. Before he could hand it to Celia she shook her head.

"_I want you to keep it, okay?"_

"_But it is yours."_

"_And now it is _yours. _I want to be at least a memory. I know it is hard for you to hold on to those."_

She took the hairpin from L and lightly placed it over his heart while it thumped so fast as the footsteps of Aunt Josephine slammed on the concrete outside.

"_It's something for you to see. For you to _believe_ that I was real. You don't know how much I want to be real, L, okay?"_

She smiled again, her heart and soul displayed in that last movement of affection.

He stared long and hard at her as the smile faded and ran out the door but with silent slippers.

He watched for a long time as her figure dashed out of his sight with only her smile lingering in his mind.

He knew that'd be the last one he'd get.

It was those days that were the hardest of his life, the days his back hurt so bad that he couldn't sit up straight, or the pain he was developing in his eyes that made it hurt to keep them any less closed or even _blink_.

But still he blinked, unless his aunt was staring at him again.

He didn't want to blink in those times—because if he did he might miss the ever subtle but present action of her fingers pulling on the metal trigger until it fired at him.

He would dodge, but sometimes he wasn't so lucky.

First, the explosive noise dove at his head. He ducked so it hit the chair behind him. But the chair deflected it back at him—back at his leg.

Pain, considerable amounts of pain added to the brewing flavor of his aunt laughing.

Laughing at him.

Laughing as she pulled again and again until he no longer had the strength to keep on calculating where the noises would stop next.

Then she'd get up until her hot breath melted the hairs on his brow and snarl, _"Get up, wench." _A few other colorful words would be added or wasted as they rolled off her tongue and badgered his ears. _Get up so I can kill you again._

_And again._

_And again._

_And again, again, again, so I crush what little you have left in you. What little your mother gave you._

_What little is worth the trouble _I _have been through._

Bang. Again, and again. _What's wrong? You _can't_ get up?_

Pull. Push. Shove. _Aren't so brave when _I'm _the one pulling the strings huh, L?_

A different voice, _"Stand up. You can do it, she can't kill you if you fight her!"_

_I cannot._

"_Yes you can! Remember."_

Tug. Slap.

"_Please."_

_Okay. I'll try._

Whimper.

_I'll try._

"_I'll be there, L. I promise."_

"_But can you promise me you won't get hurt?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Please, do not come if you cannot promise that."_

"_No one can promise that, L."_

"_Please."_

"_Okay. I promise I'll try."_

_Try to promise?_

"_When I hear the gunshot, know I'll be coming. Remember that, okay?"_

"_All right."_

Smile.

"_All right."_

Promise.

"_Okay."_

_Don't break it._

"_It will be all right."_

_Don't worry about it._

There was more than a gunshot that night.


	5. Raining Colors

It was raining again that day.

L counted how many times the rain would start up then vanish then come again, each time with a different intensity and melancholy feel.

Dragging a thumb across his chin to rest on his lip L pondered why the bells were very soft. They were just little tinkles, like small drops of water dripping from a faucet—barely heard but infinitely _there_.

Like…his mother's tiny voice. The tiny voice inside his head telling him-

Murmurs. Just murmurs now. He could not make out her voice anymore and break it apart to understand the meaning.

She just couldn't call to him anymore.

And he didn't resist losing her as much as he should have.

Guilt crept into him like the sun slowly rises to warm the land. Except if anything the guiltiness made it harder to breathe—made him feel _cold._ Salty, ice sensations wept on his face as he cringed at the thought of someone turning cold right before him.

He could hear the sadness ringing in the darkness of his room as the bells tinkling from the skies cried out, longing for the sun to come and finish its duty.

Its duty was to bring light and air out the emptiness L was feeling everywhere—the emptiness of his stomach, the empty death in his eyes oh his _bloody eyes_, and the dreadful void building up in his heart as many things faded from his memory.

He couldn't remember hope.

He couldn't remember faith.

And he couldn't possibly remember _happiness_.

The only thing that remained constantly driving a bullet through his head was the low light of loneliness.

Heart wrenching loneliness.

The constant need for someone to be there with him, holding him, telling him _it will be alright _or _it's just a nightmare go back to sleep_ was blocking almost everything else.

Pressure drew in each breath he took.

Each breath he took that _hurt._

A cocking of a gun brought him back to reality as he lazily tilted his head in Aunt Josephine's direction. _What?_

"_Care to join her?"_

_I'm not in the mood._

She smiled, a wicked smiled that burned the edges of the music sheet hidden in L's eardrums. _"She's waiting for you."_

_Who _now_?_ L thought. Who could possibly be waiting for _him?_

_And what was there to wait for besides death?_

"_I love the rain, don't you?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Don't you just love the colors from all the sounds?"_

L just glanced at her, hiding the amused expression that was trying to spread over his face.

"_It's usually a turquoise circle with black spots that slide in and out each time a raindrop bangs against a surface softly. And then a dark pink tinged with red when it is going at it hard."_

L nodded like he understood. He sort of _did_ considering she once snuck him a book about her condition. L suddenly snapped into focus after silently staring at the drops beating against the stained glass—casting ominous hues to light up the carpet—as he felt an urge to tell Celia about the bells. _"Do you hear them like I do?"_

"_Not really, but I can try. Hey, maybe you can try seeing sounds in color too?"_

The moment the gunshot pierced the air of his bell-filled drops of rain L felt his mind reeling. He couldn't concentrate on anything—all he could see was red and white.

Then suddenly black.

Deep, numb black. Black like so many before him felt before they met their demise.

"_This place could have been beautiful."_

She looks around, one hand placed on the wall slowly sliding across it.

"_I know."_

She regards him with a slight nod and walks over to him. She is kneeling before him, a hand pressed to the bar of a cold, metal chair.

"_If only it didn't taste like death."_

It had not occurred to Aunt Josephine that she would regret shooting him.

Oh, she didn't regret it _all—_just the over abundant amount of times she did.

Sinking into the ground—bent knees, _swish_, hem of her purple dress lightly skimming the floor, _swash_—she brought her hand down.

It meant having to clean up more bullets.

"_L?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_What colors are the walls?"_

He purses his lips before answering tonelessly. _"Black."_

It was until two hours passed before the blackness shimmers into white.

A vibrant white.

Like his name. He remembers that much.

But who told him that?

_Mother?_

_Aunt Josephine—who is my mother? _He questions the latter more than the former.

…_Dad?_

"_So beautiful."_

An unfamiliar image pops into his head.

"_Do you remember what they sound like?"_

He wakes up to feel a hand on his arm shaking and shaking and _would it stop it already?_

"_L! Wake up!"_ A tear-filled voice awakened his senses as pain overrides his body.

Then his body sprinkles over the floor—jerks his leg and then his back and then his eyes rolling backward into their sockets. It unnerved the girl.

"_Don't die! Please don't die!"_ Sobs drowned his ears as the mesmerizing tinkles of the bells faded and the metallic taste of blood exploded on his tongue.

"_How…Cel…"_

She hugged him.

And then she left.

"_It's such a silly plan." _Beads dangle in front of her ear, hanging onto a lock of her hair. It tickles her lobe as she sheepishly grins.

"_But that is what makes it practical. Plans seventy-nine percent of the time work out when there are unexpected devices used and carried out with to make it incorrigible for the opponents to predict your move." _His tone has a light feel to it but is expressed emotionlessly. How the two mix the little girl cannot explain as she tastes a rosy hazel.

"_Great! You're finally catching on." _A slight wink and she brings out her prize.

It was approximately twenty-five minutes and sixty-eight seconds later when Celia dashed back into the room, her feet plodding frantically—so unlike the ones he heard years ago.

The message sustained in her eyes was urgent, telling him one simple thing: _It's time to go._

She didn't dare make eye contact with him, even when he tried to stare at her distressed pale blue orbs. She had removed some chairs surrounding him to make a big enough space for him to slip through.

When did she get the strength to _do_ that?

L quickly sat up, ignoring the boundless amounts of pain erupting all over his body as he crawled through the exit with much effort and help from Celia.

L was _so_ insufferably happy when he knows he can pick his head up to feel proud of besting his predicament when he glances at Celia, hoping he can grab her eye contact for maybe a second or two to genuinely give her his thanks.

All he got in return was a cold shiver going down his spine as he felt a tug on his wrist.

The chain.

L felt like he wanted to cry.

"_Celia."_ His voice is just a faint whisper.

She can't bring herself to speak so she just nods while blinking away the tears threatening to spill out.

"_Nothing. I just wanted to say your name again. One last time."_

"_Okay. Don't talk like that."_

Tilting his head to look at her playfully, he says, _"I did it though."_

Now intrigued, Celia rubs her sweaty hands off her blouse—all drenched up from gripping L's shirt so firmly when helping him move—and then brings them to her eyes to brush the run away tear sliding toward her nose. _"What?"_

"_I saw colors from sound."_

"_Really? What was it? Was it amazing?"_

"_Cold. The blast sounded like red. And it felt cold."_

It was after a minute or two of Celia pacing while L watched her from just outside his prison that she went with an idea she threw out the window just minutes before.

"_It will have to do. We can't keep putting this off. The chain has to come off _now._"_

"_What are you going to do?"_

She sighed, a sound L had not heard from her all that much. _"I'm going to have to break my promise if I fail, L."_

_What? _He seemed to be asking himself questions a lot these days. There was no one he could really ask anymore…

"_I brought it with me just in case but I never…"_

It was a while before she spoke again because she was already walking away from him and toward a bag he did not know she had brought with her.

Feeling jittery all of a sudden, L tried to straighten up more to peer around Celia's body blocking the view but quickly stopped when a freezing cold tendril of pain shot up.

With great difficulty, Celia was able to drag the bag to L and lightly stepped over his leg to get on the other side of the bag to unzip it.

What she shook out of the bag horrified L that no words could express the emotions crossing his mind. His brain tried to put the few words of description together to let it show on his face but failed when she actually _dared_ to bring her finger to _touch _it.

"_You're going to have to tell me how to turn it on though."_

A saw.

A rusted yellow chainsaw.

"_We can think of another way."_

"_I don't have anything with me. Today is the last time I can help you and I intend to. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?"_

"_A friend who breaks their promises."_

He felt betrayed.

He felt this before, when Aunt Josephine's husband walked away to never return.

And every time betrayal took over he felt a piece of him chip away while the rest just jeered and hid.

She felt betrayed.

Couldn't he see this was the only way? She was _trying_.

Couldn't he try to see how _she_ was feeling right then?

But one thing was for certain, they were both feeling dried up and tossed around like a brown, crackling leaf underneath the tires of a car.

"_Help me out here!"_

"_The answer is 'kangaroo'."_

"_Huh?" _She looked down at the paper, pencil rigid in her hand. _"Oh…I get it now."_

"_I thought you would."_

"_Well, we _do_ tend to think the same way…sometimes. I mean, we definitely don't _see_ the same way!" _She laughed heartily as he stared at her.

What was so funny about the word 'kangaroo'?

It was eighteen seconds after their thoughts of betrayal that Celia acted it out.

She picked up the chainsaw and stared straight at L. _"How do I turn it on?"_

_I'm not answering you._

"_If you don't tell me I might do something wrong."_

_You already did._

"_And…if I do something wrong or pull the wrong switch…"_

He shook his head bitterly. She had him. _"Pull the chain…"_

How ironic.

The chainsaw roared to life.

Bells interrupted his subconscious.

It was two seconds later that L remembered something rather important. His brain didn't want to agree with him about it, as he couldn't seem to say _anything_.

Especially over the noise bending his head backwards.

It was a thought, a memory he so carelessly left in the back of his mind that he never thought would ever turn up to be important. But it was this thought that brought an onslaught of _Idiot _and _Mother _and _Help_ and eventually _Promise-breaker_ that made him yelp inside. The thought that turned into fact that turned into reaction that turned into one dreadful, _bloody_ reality.

Celia couldn't hold things correctly.

He couldn't help the fleeting thought one of them was bound to die.

And as the thought drifting off to hang onto the ceiling, the voice that suddenly swooped in confirmed his suspicion.

"_Are you having a nice reunion?"_

Celia picked this moment to drop the chainsaw and scream.

"_We haven't been properly introduced yet. Hi, my name is—"_

"_Celia."_

"_You have to let me finish!"_

Pout.

"_Fine."_

Sigh.

"_Hi, L, my name is—"_

"_This isn't going to work if you already say my name when I haven't told you it yet."_

"…_Maybe you should go first."_

He didn't plan for her to.

He never planned it at all.


	6. Stars

It was the moment the chainsaw hit the ground that the splintering noise hit L's ears.

L longed to just cover his ears and shut his eyes to make it all _go away_.

But he couldn't.

Aunt Josephine was here.

L stood up, his back hunched, and his gave never wavering from Celia's. Celia just stared at him in shell shock, lip trembling.

Aunt Josephine had a wide grin spread across her face, standing in the doorway with a gun in one hand and the other poised over the chainsaw—like a lion about to pounce.

"_What did I tell you, L?"_

Celia huddled next to L and put her arm around his own, the chain clinking.

"_I thought I told you it was over. No escaping your mother's same fate this time."_

_Don't answer. She's trying to distract you._

She turned around quickly to close the door and turned back to sneer at the children. She circled the chainsaw rattling on the ground as L and Celia shuffled the their way to stay out of her reach.

The chainsaw was in between them, power unhinging onto the floor and wood shavings floating through the air.

A mist of dust curled up around the room, clinging to the black walls.

It was when L noticed how far away they were from the door; the hold Aunt Josephine could get on the chainsaw, the _gun_ in her hand, and the chain still connecting him to a metal chair that he realized they could not escape.

They were trapped.

L grabbed Celia's hand and entwined their fingers. He looked at her with a look as if to say, _we're getting out of this together, no matter what._

Her hands were sweating and her body was trembling from anxiety and _fear_.

"_Do you think we'll ever be able to touch the stars one day?"_

"_The possibility of that is eighty-five percent."_

"_But there is _still_ a chance. I'd love to be the first person to land on a star, touch it, or even remain on one."_

L shook his head. _"No one can stand on a star."_

"_Well, we all probably thought no one could land on the moon."_

"_But that is different, Celia."_

"_No it isn't."_

L sighed. He knew there was no pulling Celia down when her head was in the clouds—_no,_ the _stars_.

"_But hey, you know _that_ phrase, 'Aim for the moon, and if you miss, you'll be among the stars.'" _Celia smiled.

L nodded when inside he was shaking his head furiously. _Sorry Celia, but you'll never get your wish._

And she didn't.

"_If you shoot, the police will find out!"_ Celia bravely stated, her words echoing in the attic.

"_Oh really? Then I guess shooting you will prove nothing?" _The malice in her voice ran deep.

"_No, it will! Because my dad is on the force and I to—"_

Before he knew it Celia was on her knees, hair strung over her face to keep it hidden and one hand pressed over her left arm.

"_Hah! That'll teach you!"_

And before L could know what _he_ was doing, he had kicked the gun out of Aunt Josephine's hands.

"_Why, you dirty little—"_

As Aunt Josephine scrambled to get the gun, L took this opportunity to try to grab the chainsaw.

"_L…don't…" _Celia shook her head. _"You'll hurt yourself if you try…to grab it…"_

He just solemnly stared at her. _I have to_. But when he turned his head around to where the chainsaw was his aunt was in his face.

_Clang_. Metal against metal, Aunt Josephine whipped her gun at his hand, the one with the chain.

"_What do you think you are _doing_?" _Her eyes were distant and her face had a crazed look, laced with cruelty.

L was on his back as he fought with his elbows to prop himself up, but Aunt Josephine stepped on one of them with her feet and twisted it to dig his elbow into the ground.

L was trying to hold back a scream, before a popping sound could occur and before he could _screech_, Celia was on Aunt Josephine's back. Her hands were desperately trying to come around her neck but her injured arm couldn't help her.

"_Get the saw, L! The sa—"_

It was when Aunt Josephine struck at Celia's forehead with the gun after her valiant attempt, that she noticed the chainsaw was running out of _steam_.

_She_ was running out of steam.

After she let the girl fall off her back and merely glanced at her dispassionately she stomped over to L who was crawling to the chainsaw in desperation—but to no avail.

She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and threw him in front of the window.

Aiming the gun at L's wrist, she shot four times before the chain snapped off.

L stared at her with mild surprise showing.

"_Oh…you think I'm trying to help you?"_

_I just wanted to get that off you to have _free_ terrain._

Colors were washing over her—

Gold, pink, green.

They bathed her as she floated, not knowing where she was.

_Where am I? Heaven?_

More astoundingly beautiful colors shone—

Blue, purple, _red_.

And then blackness.

She was nothing.

"_Hey!" _It was the summer, nine months after their fateful encounter. _"My mom baked cupcakes so I brought you a few!"_ She put a large basket of them in front of him.

L looked up at her wryly. _"A few?"_

She beamed.

It was three seconds after L rubbed his raw wrist, free of the chain, that Aunt Josephine made a mad dash for him.

Her hair was sticking in all directions, her lipstick smeared, and mascara smudged. She looked like a clown. Her footsteps were heavy and the already abused floor beneath her shuddered as more sawdust flew into the already polluted air.

L scooted out of the way just as she reached him; gun in hand, hand on trigger, trigger pointed at L.

The sound was deafening. Aunt Josephine had half her body sticking out of the window.

"_Help! Help!"_ she screamed, her legs shaking wildly and from the outside her arms were sticking to the walls in an attempt to not teeter off.

"_You should not scream, the police do exist you know,"_ L said, meek amusement in his voice.

A string of colorful words aimed at him came.

But he didn't care.

He ran past his chain, past the saw, past the view of Aunt Josephine's legs, and straight to Celia.

It would surely only take a moment to wake her up.

"_It's funny you know, I never thought I'd be best friends with a boy."_

"_I never thought I'd ever_ have_ a friend."_

"_Don't be silly, L. Everyone can have a friend, you just need to look in the right places."_

"_Celia."_

_Wake up._

"_Celia."_

_Louder._

"_Celia!"_

_Say it _louder_ and don't hold back._

"Celia!_"_

He curled up into himself and didn't want to come out.

"_What kind are they?" _L asked as he stuffed his mouth with two of them.

"_Strawberry. And hey, they're not going anywhere! Slow down!"_

He slowed down for a bit, and after he managed to choke them down he stated quietly, _"I know…but you will."_

She smiled compassionately at him. _"Hey, you. I'm not going anywhere."_

"_Aw…"_ a voice purred, breaking the quiet muffling of L's sobs._ "Did I kill her?"_

L responded with a few more sobs.

"_Oh, too bad. She could've played a different instrument well too. And hey!" _the voice exclaimed with delight, _"She could have even played the piano once I got rid of you!"_

Aunt Josephine had managed to wiggle herself backwards to pop out of the window. She picked up one of the sticks on the floor that had once covered the window.

But now, the light of the moonlit sky touched the floor.

"_You know, I don't think I ever told you how your mother died."_ She stood beside him, hand tapping the stick against the palm of her other hand.

When L heard her coming closer he pushed Celia against the wall and spread his body over her for protection.

Aunt Josephine laughed. _"It doesn't matter now does it anyway? She's dead, your girlfriend is dead, and soon _you'll_ be _dead_." _She stood over him, the moon behind her brilliantly shining—casting an eerie shadow over Aunt Josephine's face. _"And you know what the best part is?"_ She lowered her head to whisper in his ear. _"I didn't kill her." _L had no reaction she could see, his face was turned to the wall so she wouldn't be able to see his tears. _"So, you hate me for absolutely _nothing_."_

"_No."_

Sniffle.

"_You…you killed Celia."_

Dry laugh.

"_No I didn't, you stupid _boy_! It was _you_."_

_No._

"_You killed _her_. The only reason she was here was for _you_."_

_No._

"_You know I honestly thought you were doing this on purpose."_

_No._

"_The whole 'woe is me' thing just to get a laugh out of me—I always thought you were _stronger_ than that. Your mother told me you almost always showed no emotion so I thought you were _faking_ it. But then I realized…"_

_No. I _didn'_t kill Celia._

"…_you were as pathetic and weak as your mother. That's the only way I see you two related."_

_I did _not_ kill _Celia.

"_You two look nothing at all alike. You look like your father really."_

_I did. Not. Kill. _Celia!

"_It fits though, he was a murderer _too_."_

"_No!" _He kicked her face off of him and watched as she stumbled across the room. He stood up and stared at her.

She couldn't control her balance as she kept falling into step backwards. Her arms were spread out on either side of her and were the only things stopping her from falling out the window.

_No._ L stepped back and ran with all the might he could muster to deliver a smooth kick to Aunt Josephine's stoma—

No. _"I really am a murderer."_

Aunt Josephine just laughed hysterically. _"No, you don't have the guts!"_

"_Tell me how my mother died."_

She smiled wickedly at him and slowly, tantalizingly, let go of the sides of the black walls and plunged down the house.

The crack on the concrete, the soft whirring of the chainsaw dying down, and the rapid breathing of his own throat choking on teary gasps were all he heard as the sun rose—dipping Aunt Josephine's body in red and orange and all in between.

"_L."_

"_Yes."_

"_Do you _really_ think miracles can happen?"_

"_Yes."_

He wasn't too sure of it anymore though.

"_L." _A raspy voice brought him back as he was staring down the window.

"_Celia?" _L sprinted over to her. He got crouched beside her, leaning onto the wall to stare at her.

"_L…did you win?"_

"We _won."_

She smiled, bringing her unbloodied hand to the side of his face gently. _"Good."_

"_You need medical attention."_

He got up to go when Celia stopped him. _"No, L. It's alright. He's calling to me and I'm going to him."_

_No._

"_You can't go, not yet."_

"_L…"_

"_I _need_ you."_

Tears brimmed the corners of her eyes as she struggled to keep them open, but she kept slipping—slipping away. _"I love you, L. You were the greatest friend I could ever have…"_

L said nothing.

"_Remember…remember that one time…"_

_Celia, don't go._

"_Remember when…the rain…"_

_Please, don't go._

"_And the bells…?"_

_Don't go._

"_I can hear them now, L. They're pretty."_

"_Are the police really coming?"_

She tried nodding but she only had the strength to lift her chin up a bit. _"I'll see you in the stars, L."_

L smiled a bit. _"Don't talk like that."_

But then she couldn't talk, not anymore she could.

"_I'll meet you there, no matter what."_


	7. Forgotten Funeral

It wasn't too long until they found her.

They did not have to look long because the screaming began exactly when L's screaming stopped.

"_There is a dead woman in the driveway!"_

The neighbor never stopped screaming into the phone.

"_How could this happen?"_

The friend never stopped screaming her name.

"_What was her name again? Jun something…."_

The passerby never stopped screaming callousness.

"_What happened to her?"_

The police never stopped screaming in his ear.

_I killed her._

"_Who killed her?"_

_I did._

"_Answer me!"_

_Me._

_And she got what she deserved._

_Injustice._

He was working late at night when the phone rang.

"_Yes...No, it can't be...she…"_

Footsteps thundered through the house.

"_Cely?"_

Panicked steps lost their footing.

Tumbling down the stairs. A slight crack, then a dangerous lull as uneven breaths filtered the suspended disbelief.

"_Celia!"_

Frequent name-calling.

"_I tucked her in! She was supposed to be sleeping!"_

"_You never tuck her in! She waits up for _you_!"_

And papers were signed.

Parents were split, as they could not call themselves parents anymore.

Wife.

Husband.

Daughter.

No more.

Just a tray of burning ashes left on the doorstep, as respect for the dead and the abandoned. It would be too dramatic and overbearing if they were to slit each other's throats right there over the loss of their daughter—but they came close.

But no, life still goes on for them.

And it kept going, leaving everything else behind.

Just the grave, in the cemetery, could ever remind them of their misfortune if they ever decided to come back again.

_Just the bang, and the clatter, as an angel, hits the ground._

He never thought he'd be good at hiding since it was a natural thing to do.

_Aunt Josephine's coming—quick! Under the piano!_

_Aunt Josephine's coming—quickly! Behind the piano!_

Under the piano. Behind the piano. Away from the piano.

_Under the piano._

It all depends on how you feel, and he felt like hiding.

But the piano was gone.

And the sun was going down. Down, down, past the earth's marks and past the hole in the ground.

Past the piano, past the bones, and past the screams of the crumbling, worm-ridden earth, just as they creaked.

Just as the house faded from his view, leaving nothing, not even broken memories.

Nothing to hide under anymore, everything would be out in the open. They had their evidence, their witness, and their murderer all at the same time.

They had everything.

But he had nothing.

Not even that meddlesome piano to steady his balance.

_Don't forget these things._

"_My colors always reminded me of—"_

He can't think about her anymore.

It was when the sun rose days ago that they found Aunt Josephine's body in the driveway. It was the neighbor that called the police in after Celia's message went unanswered by her father. He forgot to check his voice mail, forgot to check his house, forgot to check on his _daughter_.

And in reality, that was all that mattered—the forgotten. Because the forgotten did not have a choice. They were already forgotten and that was good enough as it was.

L had a choice to be forgotten, they might have not believed Celia so no one would know he was even alive—Aunt Josephine and her ex-husband kept him a secret to the world.

Like he would be the rest of his life.

L couldn't bring himself to hide, not when justice had not been served. He needed them to know the truth. The truth about him, the truth about liars, the truth about Aunt Josephine, and the truth of how Celia came to lie still.

"_Load the girl,"_ one paramedic said to the other as Celia's body was draped onto a stretcher.

Another shook their head. _"A child, no less."_

He enters as the child fingers an object. He is muttering something to himself, barely intelligible but is still heard by the old man.

"_Yes, she was just a child."_

Pause.

He silently regards his presence with a slight tilt of his head and tip of his chin, nodding to the ceiling. _"Why do they die too young? And the _bastards_ live too long?"_

Deep breath. _"They lived to their full extent, it's how trying the situation is and how determined they are to keep on just _trying_. And when their limit is stretched until it can take no more, it snaps and the trial… has ended. And like that life can be lost."_

"_Watari?"_

"_Yes, child?"_

"Am_ I a child?" _Eyes dart to him, not once shifting away from the graying man.

"_Yes, why do you ask?"_

"_That means I'll die too young as well."_

Sigh. _"Not this again. You'll die when the time is right."_

He turns to leave.

But the child, he turns to curl back into himself again, object held peculiarly to his eyes. _"Yes, I'm ninety-nine percent sure of it."_

He doesn't look back, but he hesitates—wonders if what he is doing is really all right to do to a person—d-do to a _child_, no less.

"_It's the good that die too soon, isn't it, Watari?"_

He heads out now, never looks back—_"I would hope you'd think better of me, L."_

It is when she noticed a child peeking out from behind a chair in the crime scene that she was his first voice to speak quietly to him. _"Oh, what are you doing over there?"_

She reminded him of Celia, just a bit, but it hurted too much to think about _her_—to think at _all _so he just said, _"Sitting, for the moment."_

She frowned at him, adjusted her dark-tinted glasses and pressed a button to some sort of contraption sticking just below her shoulder. _"This is the kid you questioned? …Yeah, he is a bit weird-looking…Mhmm…I'll bring him in." _She let go of the button then walked right over to him, and then she had the _audacity_ to place her hands on her knees to bend her head to his level. _"Having some trouble, kid?"_

"_No. Just trouble was done here."_

"_Ready to tell me about it? You scared off some of the other officers."_

"_If that is the proper way to say it—then yes."_

_Proper? This kid… "Okay, then why don't you stop mumbling with your head in your knees and follow me? Or do you need me to lead you around like a baby and hold your hand?"_

She…she was making _fun_ at him! _"No."_ Defiance coated his lips—_"If it is all right with _you_ but I can leave by myself and find the right and _mature_ people myself."_

She gritted her teeth and stood up straight, glaring down at him. _"Suit yourself, _kid._"_

As she turned to walk away, he suddenly lifted his head and uncurled himself—just keeping his position at a crouch. _"She killed her, if that's what you want to know from me."_

She stopped but did not turn around.

"_You can throw me away now, if that's all you want."_

She pressed the button again and whispered into the _radio_—_"He's our witness. Yes? ...Well, find a shrink while you're at it."_

And then she was the next person to walk out of his life and never turn back.

_Don't you forget about me._

"_But soon you will think better of me, when you understand your purpose to its full extent."_

_One hundred percent sure of it._

It's about to rain when they finally get the location of Mrs. Coppernil's body out of him. His reward was a donut. He ate savagely, like he never had a full meal in his lif—

Sounds about right.

What he really wanted, was too much to ask—they might think he would run away after he showed signs of resistance that were interpreted into defiance.

They still needed evidence to convict Aunt Josephine.

Hadn't she died? They still needed to solve Mrs. Coppernil's murder.

Hadn't he told them? They still needed to make sure he wasn't lying.

Hadn't he given them the truth? They still wanted to make sure he did not do it himself.

"_Such a strange kid. He really does look the sadistic type to do it, neh? Didn't want to be take away from his aunt so he offed th—"_

He wanted it all to stop—he wanted to be forgotten in the eyes of the police as just _that_—eyes of proof. It was too much, his head had started to hurt the minute that rude officer talked to him in the attic in the vicinity of his prison and had not stopped even when he was brought to the station. And when the rain started pouring—it came down on him harder. The bells enveloped his insanity and sealed it shut—ready to release it when the time came, when they came to take him away.

Where were they going to take him? They did not say. Not yet, anyway. They still needed him without a lot on his kind. According to the shrink, moving to a different location was supposed to stress him out.

He really tried to keep his faith with the police, for Celia at least.

Her father was one wasn't he? He still hadn't shown up.

He had to come soon, the rain was starting to stop and he needed to _feel_ it. He wanted to feel close to it, one last strange attachment to his mother before he forgot _her_ all together.

_Did he forget about me?_

"_The police are really going to be coming?"_

"_Yep, I told my dad. If something goes wrong I made sure for him to promise he'll take care of you."_

He just smiled at her, sh—

Stop.

No more of her.

_Forget her._

It was the day before he left that a prisoner wanted to talk to him.

_Him_, that child? _No._ No one wanted to talk to _him_. Who else did he know?

"_I've got something for you, Lawliet."_

_My name?_

"_Take this."_

He gave him a very over-sized, white long-sleeved shirt. L touched it gently, not knowing whether he could trust this man or not. When the man just smiled—some teeth knocked out—L took it from him gently, but still eyed him carefully.

"_You know, I _am_ kind of sorry about what went on between us back then. But it's over now isn't it? You get to get on with your life, and I get to get on with _mine._ That's so funny, I'm in _jail_ I don't _have_ a life." _He talked so _normally_, not patronizingly or accusingly that L felt a bit at ease with him after a few moments at just listening to him mutter apologies and rant on with strained laughter about his prison plight.

"_Go on, put it on. It's to replace your bloodstained one and all. The one you've worn since your old aunt and I started taking care of you."_

_Taking care of me? _The thought made him want to scoff.

"_In case you were wondering, I never liked teasing you—your aunt told me too. I was such a wuss. But, hey, look at me now! I'm in prison. Wusses don't go to prison."_

_Stupid people do. Or unjustly prosecut—_

"_Your name, L, stands for Lawliet. At least I think it does. It said something like that on your certificate. L Lawliet. Your mother was one weird one. Sad how she—"_

_My mother was _not_ weird. She can't be messed up like me._

"_Come on! You only have two more minutes with your old pap so put on the beastly thing."_

_Maybe this is why he never talked before—he sounded so…insincere when he tried to act sincere._

After analyzing the shirt thoroughly—not a piece of lint unsuspected—he pulled off his old tattered and worn shirt and traded it for his new _present_.

It fit so _comfortably_—like with the kind of cotton clouds in heaven were made of. But it was too loose, it hung close to his ankles and the sleeves swept over his hands.

"_Eh, you'll grow into it soon enough—or later. Or when you get older. Like me. Yeah, you'll grow into it."_

But he never did.

When they took him to the orphanage, they ignored his protests and his want—no, his _need_ to go outsi—

They didn't even let him go to her funeral.

_Just the bang, and the clatter, as an angel, hits the ground._

**Disclaimer: I don't own "Stay" by U2's lyrics.**


	8. Chance of Change

It was a cold and snowy day, ice crystals shifting with the contortions of the winter breeze.

The old man led the child by the hand.

Child, looking up towards a large house, frost beneath his eyes and clinging to his eyelashes. A red scarf was pulled around his neck and covering up to just below the bridge of his nose.

Old man, glancing at the child, hope lightly dashed on the corners of his old whiskers sitting quietly below his nose—twitching as a smile formed on his face, taking in the bewilderment of the child's face.

"_This…is where I am staying?"_

"_Yes, L."_

He couldn't help but shake with warmth, and a giddiness only those with compassion could feel when tiny fingers gripped his hold on the child's gloved hand—reassuring their bond.

"_This is where _we_ are staying…"_

It was a week after that Wammy intercepted L.

"_The case. Yes, the case _does_ need to be solved. But not at the expense of this child."_ He let the glowering looks linger on him before tipping his hat and kindly offering if the attorney needed a ride back but the attorney declined, preferring to take a taxi.

Wammy waved as the taxi drove off, snow flying from the curbs. He turned around as a tapping sound entered his ears, slowly and softly but strangely demanding.

What he saw when he turned around was a child with reckless black hair, no expression, and pale cheeks. Red nose.

"_Hello,"_ he said to him. He had walked over to the child, who was sitting in the car of the attorney's, tapping his nibbled-on fingers along the window.

"_Have _you_ come to have your say?"_ the child asked tonelessly, drawing his face up to look at the staring Wammy who had bent his head to get a better view of him.

"_I think before I say anything, it would be proper to introduce ourselves"—_the child's ears perked up—_"and maybe go out for some hot chocolate."_

The boy pondered Wammy's statement for a while, fingers leaving the window to dance on his lips. _"I believe you may call me L, other than what I believe there is nothing I can do for you—for my name."_

Wammy nodded. _This child…L…he is so—old. "Yes. You may call me Quilsh Wammy."_

"_Quilsh Wammy."_ The boy blinked.

"_Indeed."_ Wammy smiled at him. L pushed open the car door, almost knocking over Wammy, as he did not even wait for him to move away from the side.

"_We leave this here,"_ L said, and gestured to the car.

"_I'm afraid so."_ He beckoned the child to move along with him, but L was already walking in front of him— white shirt dragging along the snow, hiding his feet from view and his figure from among the snow, a black blob shuddering every once in a while.

The car had broken down and Wammy had continued their argument from when they were driving about L—and finally won. He was to take L with him, and to care for him until L could take care of himself.

That time never came.

L always needed someone. It didn't matter that he became capable of doing things himself, the world was so needy on him that he felt compelled to be needy on someone else, clinging to the last shred of humanity he could possess from one other person—

Himself.

"_L, please come back here."_ L stood still and didn't turn back to Wammy.

Wammy sighed and caught up to the bent figure, whose hands were crossed firmly around his chest, buried in the sleeves. _"You're going to catch a cold, wallowing in the snow in that."_

"_What do you suggest, Quilsh Wammy?"_

"_Please, just Wammy would do."_

"_It is not my intention to please you."_

Wammy kept his mouth shut and instead, took L by arm, and hoisted him over his shoulder. He shook his head. He didn't even have socks on—just poor, beaten tennis shoes.

L began to protest and wiggle around but Wammy kept a firm grip on him.

As they continued walking—or, just Wammy doing the walking—L started to smile. _Someone's carrying me and it is not Death._

Before they entered the ice cream shop, Wammy put L down and adjusted his shirt on his small body. _"This shirt is too loose for you, L."_

L didn't reply, just stared at him as Wammy brushed the snow off of the hem of his shirt.

"_That hurt,"_ L said a couple minutes later when they had entered the shop.

"_Ice cream for a peace offering?"_ Wammy offered, but thought he might never get anywhere. He had let it slip his mind that L draping over his shoulder would prevent them from entering the shop correctly—resulting in L's bum feeling pain it bumped against the doorframe.

"_I would accept your peace but it is not my intention."_ He was staring down at the tiled floor now.

"_Oh? And what would your intention be then?"_ Wammy caught the amusement in his voice right after he let it out. Thankfully L didn't seem the type to be offended by it.

L looked up at Wammy from underneath the fringe of his dark hair. _"Finding peace in this _world_ I find so strange."_

Wammy felt amused, hearing an odd boy question how something _else_ could be strange. _"But if you were to make peace with me, you would be making peace with a part of the world. I happen to be a part of this world, one man or not."_

A finger to his lips. A nibble. _"I see you have my same intention too, Wammy."_

Wammy grinned. _He called me my preferred name._ _Well-done, L._

As he ordered for L who was busy crouching on the floor and inspecting it, Wammy thought, _I hope to find peace sometime, in my old age—I have yet to find any._

He found some peace in L. With L.

And then some. Because, peace very well may have began with the world, but the peace with each other and theirselves was just beginning to break apart.

"_Do you not find this strange, Wammy?"_ L dipped a finger in his bowl of ice cream.

"_What strange, L?" _Wammy himself had a cone. He purposely ordered for L's to be in a bowl, he didn't want to find out if the child was a messy eater in a public place.

It was just too bad L could make a mess with a bowl since he disregarded the _use_ of _spoons._

"_We choose to eat something cold when it is already cold."_ He stuck a glob of vanilla ice cream in his mouth, licking his lips clean. After he was finished gulping (and Wammy was afraid he would choke himself to death by how much he consumed with just one glob), he wiped his fingers on his shirt and dipped another into the bowl and his thumb from his free hand to his lip. _"Is it because we, as humans, do not like change and choose to keep things constant? Is tha—"_

"_There is not always a deeper meaning to everything, L."_

A little irked at being interrupted, L was about to retort but held back his tongue. He remembered, remembered Celia.

He didn't like change. He couldn't just forget Celia, not that much had to change. He remembered Celia's look at life—there was always a deeper _something_ to _anything_. The stars, the unseen colors, the candy.

The cold.

"_Oh, but there _is_, Wammy. You might have to dig for it but it _is_ there."_ He finished his ice cream and slid out the booth—landing on the balls of his feet so he could be crouching on the floor. Feet touching the cold, tiled floor.

"_I did suggest we have hot chocolate…"_ Wammy stammered but L was already by the door, waiting for him.

- 0

He waited for her.

"_When I hear the gunshot, I'll be coming."_

But he hoped she never came.

"_When I hear the gunshot…"_

It was unfortunate for her that she always kept her word.

"…_I'll be coming."_

And she gave her word to him and he crumpled it up and threw it into the fires of his heart.

It was because she kept her word that she came and she came to get killed. To stop him from getting killed.

It was unfortunate for him that he saw it coming, saw her word being there—but her promise broken.

It was after they left the ice cream store that Wammy had the _strange _idea to buy clothing for L. No one would have stopped him if he were to just get him better shoes and socks (because L had cut the bottom out of his former ones)—but he had to go and get _excited_ enough to want to buy him shirts and pants and _more_.

He spoiled the child with the gift of _choice_.

"_This one, Wammy."_

It was a shame that every choice L made was the same.

He held the bag of white shirts for Wammy to see with just the tips of his fingers and looked back at it, nodding to himself because even if Wammy were to say no he knew that he himself approved.

"_That's the same as _this_ one." _Wammy held up a white T-shirt that was exactly the same as the one L was wearing except it was much shorter.

"_But these come in a bag."_ L placed the bag of white T-shirts into the growing increasingly heavy basket. He nodded again. _"That should do."_

Wammy grunted, struggling with the weight of the shopping basket. _"But you haven't even gotten…pants…"_ He regretted saying that.

The he knew it was too late as L walked away from him towards the pants section.

_I will have to get a cart, then,_ he thought. He dropped the basket with a _thud_ onto the floor. There were two bags of white T-shirts, three independent white T-shirts, a box of white T-shirts, and folded piece of cloth that resembled a white T-shirt.

When he came back to the basket the pile of clothes was even worse as L stacked the same blue jeans onto it.

_That child…he can make me feel so uneasy around him. But then after the worse of it is over, a certain calm of peace washes over me…then it goes out again when Roger suggests I should buy him an ant farm. I can only imagine what L would do about _that_…_

It was after Wammy had transferred the clothing onto the cart that he noticed L was gone.

_Oh dear…what was I—?_

"_Wammy!"_

_Thank heavens he wasn't raiding some poor soul's cart._ _"L, where were you?"_ He kept his voice even, not displaying the anxiety that was already fading away as his charge walked up to him, heavy slouch and messy hair appearing at once.

"_There is something I must tell you."_

He captured his interest once L stated the obvious.

"_Yes, L, what is it?"_ Wammy asked expectantly.

"_I believe we aren't safe here,"_ he said, eyes shifting uncomfortably. _"I found something…suspicious."_

"_And what, pray tell, could that be?"_

"_I will have to show you."_

"_But is it not too suspi—"_

L was walking ahead of him already…_again._

What Wammy wasn't expecting was standing before a urinal.

He had to bite back a laugh as a man shuffled out of the room behind him and L moved behind Wammy, staring at the suspect.

"_There,"_ he breathed. He hid his face behind Wammy's coat.

Wammy sighed. How do you deal with a child's fear of a…urinal?

"_L," _he gently said as he turned around and bent his knees so he could look him in the eyes. He swept some of his unruly hair from his hairs to get a clearer view. _"That's a toilet."_

"_No, this is the toilet."_

"_No, _that's_ a toilet."_

"_That would make this a toilet room."_

"_L."_ Wammy placed a hand on his shoulder. _"It's not going to hurt you."_

After he explained to L what it really was and why it was there, Wammy thanked the heavens that their cart was still in the exact same spot. It must have looked too intimidating for anyone to take it.

As they made their way towards a line to pay, Wammy silently voiced to himself, _I won't let anything hurt you._

As they were about to pay, and the cashier's eyes were beginning to pop out of his head as he stared at the load of clothes in the cart, the stack of clothes began to sway.

Wammy prayed desperately that it would _not_ topple over. As he moved to keep a hold on it, something flew over his head and landed on the pile of clothes. Suddenly, the pile stopped fumbling.

It was a piece of candy. He looked at L who only shrugged. _"I'm still hungry, I want to even out my appetite."_

He more like evened out the balance. And Wammy was grateful for that. He would remember to give L more candy in the future, it was what saved his life from embarrassment—and it was what started L's.

And he was just happy to make it out of the mart alive, never again would he try to take L out to a strange place as that—at least, until he had practice handling it.

It was before they headed out with many bags of clothing piled into the cart that Wammy dashed back into the fray quickly. L waited next to the cart, knowing it would make him feel at peace if he were to stay in the same place.

A hand took hold of the cart's handles and nudged L on to move.

On top of the unending pile of bags was a red scarf. L stared questionably at it until Wammy said airily, _"Just adding some change."_

And for the first time since Wammy saw him, L grinned.

It was after the outing that they finally made it to Wammy's House, snow crestfallen among the high shingles and across gray walls and tills.

L hung onto Wammy's hand as the gates opened.

They reached the door and L suddenly felt scared, nervous, and depressed knowing there was no going back now, no chance of going back to how things were—horrible as they were but still _what he knew—_everything would change once he stepped through that door.

Wammy noticed his apprehension in the cold, stiff air and laid a hand on his shoulder.

L wondered, wondered if that Celia were near him she'd be doing the same thing and encouraging him to go on.

"_Just one step, L. You can do it. You're not leaving me behind. You're leaving everything _else_ behind. But I'll be right here waiting." _She would smile that last smile and fall into the snow. Returning, but forever.

He felt the weight lift from his back and the comforting weight on his shoulder present itself.

Wammy never let go.

**~fin~**


End file.
